Chapter Fifty-One Margo Angelhart
Chapter Fifty-One
Margo Angelhart
I went to church most Sundays. Well, not most, but more than half. I rarely went to church during the week, but found myself at St. Dominic’s, my Uncle Rafe’s parish,
for Friday morning Mass the day after Thanksgiving.
I sat near the back, not because I thought Uncle Rafe wouldn’t see me, but because I wanted the privacy. I wanted to thank
God that Dad was free, that justice had been—mostly—served. I knelt and prayed and realized that we were so greatly blessed
it almost made me cry.
It was hard for me to put aside my anger toward all the people who conspired to commit these crimes. The greed and lack of
compassion for the veterans they used to test a drug that harmed them. The way they cheated to change the drug, to falsify
the records, to not get caught. For money. For lots of money the drug would have brought to them.
Since Peter Stockman’s arrest, we had more information and answers—but not all the answers I wanted. Nadine Pierce had fought and won to keep the drug from being approved, and she sent us an email that Neurovantix was withdrawing the drug from consideration.
Then, the company filed for bankruptcy.
If the drug came back to market, whoever picked it up would have to go through the entire clinical trial process again. Maybe
it would become a miracle drug at some point. But not on the lives of veterans again.
It was really hard to forgive people like Mildred Maddox and Peter Stockman.
Forgiveness, Uncle Rafe always told me, was for my soul, not for the souls of those who committed evil. They had their own
journey toward redemption. And I was trying to forgive, I really was, but this nugget of hate toward these people who hurt
others, who hurt my father, continued to gnaw at me.
I had to let it go, but I didn’t know how.
Mass began and I stood, turned when I noticed someone slide into the pew next to me.
“Dad,” I whispered.
He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and squeezed.
We left together when Mass ended. “Let’s walk,” Dad said. “It’s a beautiful morning.”
The school attached to St. Dominic’s was empty since it was Thanksgiving break. We walked down the short dead-end, tree-lined
street. It was a beautiful morning, the air fresh, a little crisp. I loved fall in Phoenix.
“Margo, don’t cry,” Dad said.
I couldn’t help it. The last three and a half years of my life had been a living hell. Dad in prison. Being estranged from
my mom, my siblings. Trying to find answers and being stopped at every turn. Knowing my parents had lied and not knowing why.
The truth had finally come out. It was cathartic. It was . . . well, I was just too damn emotional.
“I’m happy,” I said, and meant it. “I’m so glad you’re here. I know you still have some legal issues to take care of, but—you
don’t think you’ll go back, do you?”
Maybe that was my fear, that even though we knew what had happened, some aggressive prosecutor would want to make Dad pay
for lying to the authorities, charge him for making a false confession, whatever else they could dream up.
“We don’t know the future, but I have confidence in Rita, and in the truth, and in the system.”
“Even after everything that happened?”
“Even after.”
Dad hugged me under the willow tree at the far end of the church property. I cried everything out. And I felt my father’s
chest heave as his own tears spilled.
And in our tears, the pain and darkness in my heart lightened.
I forgave my parents. In that moment, I let it all go. What they did was out of love and fear. They had always been a rock
for me and for my brothers and sisters our entire lives. I would never forget that. And even in these last few years, I knew
they loved us, even if I didn’t understand at the time that they were trying to protect us in the only way they knew how.
They had sacrificed more than anyone.
So, I let it go. And peace filled me.
I would work on forgiving everyone else.
That would take a lot more time.
We walked back to the church. “Breakfast?” Dad asked.
“Cal’s probably cooked enough for an army. Want to come over?”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course.” I waved to where I saw Uncle Rafe on the front steps of the church.
“You love him.”
I knew who Dad was talking about. Was I blushing?
“I haven’t thought about that yet.”
“Don’t think too long, Margo.”
“It’s only been two and a half months.” Nearly three, but who was counting?
I thought back to our two-month anniversary and the challenge coin he gave me. DEA on one side, a female PI on the other.
Suddenly, it took on a far more romantic feeling than I gave it credit for at the time.
“I knew I loved your mother the day she walked into the class I was TAing.”
“I haven’t told him.”
“He loves you.”
“Dad!”
“Oh, he does. I could tell when he looked at you at Thanksgiving. It was written all over his face.”
I nearly panicked. “Did anyone else notice?”
“Everyone.”
We reached Uncle Rafe.
“Everyone noticed what?” he asked.
“Cal,” I said.
“That he’s in love with you? He couldn’t have picked a better woman.”
I suppressed a groan, then smiled. I couldn’t help it. “Come to my house for breakfast?” I said to Uncle Rafe. I might have
been glowing. If Uncle Rafe and Dad saw something I had been ignoring for weeks, maybe I should stop ignoring it. “Cal’s cooking.”
“Do you think he has the gelato I’ve been hearing about?” Uncle Rafe said.
“We might have some. Don’t know how it’ll go with bacon and eggs, but knock yourself out.”
I knew I was lucky. I had a wonderful family I loved and who loved me.
And, apparently, a man who I loved . . . and who also loved me.
Yes, I was blessed. And I would never take my family—or Cal—for granted.
*****